


or ordinarily used

by JustifiedGlass (Code16)



Series: as are what motives [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ass to Mouth, Barbed Penis, Crying, Eldritch Abominations, Electrocution, Forced Drinking, Forced Urine drinking, Injury, Kneeling, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Oral Sex, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Humiliation, Rough Sex, Some Begging, Teleportation, Tentacles, Torture, Watersports, a bit of blood mentioned, anal penetration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-24 11:03:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6151570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Code16/pseuds/JustifiedGlass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes in the 'ISA are eldritch abominations' verse</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Once again not technically actually electrocution, since it's eldritch abominations, but I am tagging it as similar enough to count.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _[This takes place at one of the previously mentioned meetings, so the ISA eldritch abominations are around a table and John is off to the side for when they want him.]_

The Elders sometimes bother beckoning him over, sometimes don’t. The next one doesn’t - one moment he’s in his corner and the next he’s in its grasp, held in the air. He’s barely over the balance loss of travel before it moves him down, impales him on a barbed dick, settles him in its lap. A pulse of power through his throat keeps him from screaming. He shifts against it almost in spite of himself, like his body thinks it can find a position that’s bearable. Stillness, when he manages to try it, doesn’t help; it twists inside him, subtle and slow, not tearing, but like rocking a thorn in a wound.

_ -Shh, pay attention- _ Tentacles embrace him, another sets a glass against his lips. It’s urine, and probably his, unless they’ve started redistributing. He drinks when it tips the glass. When he’s done it refills it, from wherever they sent this stuff when they collected it, he’d imagine. The glass taps against his lip. John drinks again. 

In the middle of the third glass, he gags, tries to move his head away as it follows him.  _ Please.  _ It’s such a stupid thing to beg over; he doesn’t care anymore. The One holding him does something like shake its head in disapproval. It could just force his mouth to open again. Instead, it sets a tentacle where his dick meets his scrotum. The shock is mild, for the Elders; he thinks he doesn’t black out, probably. When he can see again, the glass has been refilled; another is lined up on the table. John finishes the rest without anything resembling complaint. Fights nausea back.

The One strokes his hair, draws a tentacle down his chest and to his stomach, gently, like it’s following his digestive system from outside. Then it fucks him, somewhat lifting him up, somewhat thrusting. The tentacles at his limbs and torso don’t squeeze, don’t so much as contract. Have no need for it; its grip is unyielding like a position in set concrete, no millimeter of movement left to him. It steals his screams again, puts a tentacle against his throat like it wants to taste them. Even silenced, they exhaust him. When it’s done, his muscles feel limp, he barely moves in its grasp. It lays him over the table, sends a tentacle into him to probe. He’s bleeding, he can tell. He thinks it likes that taste too. The sting of the tentacle is worse at the tears; it holds him in place when he flinches away. John closes his eyes, presses his face into the table. Tentacles slip between his lips, stroke lightly, prick at him like nettle leaves. 

It pulls him back into its lap. Fucks him again, slowly, gently. It’s dulled the barbs; they don’t tear at him, not quite. He shivers at it still, like his body is trying to shrink away. The tentacles that hold him sting pins and needles across his skin, in his mouth. John cries. Quietly, without sound. That happens a lot, these days, when before he could have counted it over his life on his hands. Something about Their presence, he thinks. Like chronic radiation exposure, building up under the surface. 

Injuries close up somewhat. Not all the way. Just enough so that the others won’t complain, the next one that wants him.

_ -Shh,-  _ it brushes into his mind again.  _ -Say thank you _ -. 

_ Thank you _ . He doesn’t really even have to struggle for it anymore. The tentacles slip out of his mouth. It picks him up again, sets him on the ground on his knees. The dick is still erect between its legs.

_ -For you- _

The barbs are still dull, mostly. He stays careful, traces around them with his tongue, makes himself still when it thrusts. 

_ -Wait,- _ it tells him before it finishes. Pulses, withdraws; he closes his mouth, quickly. It’s harsh in his mouth, worse than alcohol but not outright caustic. The One wraps him in its tentacles again. This time, John gets a chance to brace.

Somehow, even through the lurch of travel, he holds on. Reappears where he’d been, flinches against the floor. Changes position, trying not to move too fast (he  _ can _ move, now).

From the corner, he can see it, feel it watching him. He swallows; it burns going down. John curls up on the hardwood, and waits.  


	2. Chapter 2

John is in the hallway when he feels the presence approaching, at a distance but getting closer. His reflexes are good, have been all his life. Trainable, as he learned even before the army. He barely needs to think about it to move back towards one of the walls, get down to his knees. Feels the presence still, decreasing distance. Sees the Elder itself (himself. Full human form, dirty-blonde hair and a suit) before long.

Sometimes they just pass by him, barely taking notice (except when he doesn’t get to it fast enough. That, they take notice of every time). Today is the other kind of time. 

The Elder gets a look at him and smiles. (Not that it, he, wouldn’t have already known John was there. But they liked their human forms to be thorough.) Walks over to John.

“Hello, pretty thing.” John’s response to this is, of course, not about words. He keeps his head down, waits for the nudge in his mind that is both permission and order. Clasps his hands behind his back and moves forward. 

A lot of times, this is a fairly quick process. Perfunctory, even. A few minutes, maybe a shock or two or a few new bruises, if they’re feeling it. 

Today’s not one of those days either. 

Ten minutes in, John figures he’s got a rhythm going, at least. The Elder has a hand on the back of his neck, another in his hair. Doesn’t use them that often, mostly just keeps them there. Reminder, maybe. Or just convenience. Stands leisurely, lets John do the work. 

From his position, John gets glimpses of most of the people passing by. They, in turn, don’t pay him much attention. Incline their heads to the Elder (who can probably see them, human form and facing the other way notwithstanding) and keep walking. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to see.  

It’s been another ten when the hand on the back of his neck taps lightly. John gets the message, doesn’t wait for the One to move his head this time. Moves it himself, ends nearly pressed against him. Pressure from the hand lets him know to stay. 

“This is very nice.” It’s a soft voice, intimate. “You know, if I do this right, I could find my way into you-” John feels a tap at his entrance, then a shock. The hands hold him in place. “All the way through, maybe. Touch my cock at the other end.” There’s no response to that John can give, really. He tries not to let his muscles clench, nothing that could be taken for resistance. The tentacle circles his entrance a few more times, shocks him again. Withdraws. “Not today though, I think.” The hands let him go. John stays where he is anyway; feels the Elder’s smile at it. “Up you get, now. Hands on the wall.”

His clothes are no obstacle to the Elders, not if they don’t want them to be. He feels the One considering him from behind. “Think we should let them see?” John doesn’t know how to answer this, and does. Tentacles are winding around him, without visibility but no less there. Bite into him like knives today, and he knows they don’t really cut, but the feeling is enough to press his breath out of him. He tries to gather it back, at least enough for the words. 

“Your wish.” It’s the right answer. Which doesn’t always get him anything, but the Elder seems to be playing nice, today. The pain goes down, somewhat, off the edge of screaming to something almost not so bad. John makes his muscles start to unwind again, makes himself breathe.

“Hm, not today, I think.” The smile is still there. “I am in the mood for the physical, though.” John feels, hears, cloth tear against his skin - the back seam of his pants, then his underclothes below it. John tries to ignore it. It’s not like his clothes matter, not like they won’t get him new ones if they want. Not every day he gets to wear clothes to begin with, really. Nothing he should be objecting to.

It’s fingers at his entrance, this time, not pushing inside (yet, at least), just probing. “How long has it been?” John casts back, tries to assess time. Things start blurring together for him sometimes, coming to his memory in the wrong order. And that won’t do, here. 

“7 hours?” Some of the Younger Ones had found him in the kitchen at not-breakfast, took turns with him over the table. The fingers continue probing.

“7, hm?” Whether his body stays open or not, and to what extent, seems up to neither it nor to him, these days. Today seems to be the latter. (Not that the Elders can’t adjust what they want, anyway, if they don’t find it). The fingers disappear, the cock takes their place. 

“You should thank me.” Tentacles and hands brush over his ribs, his hips, his stomach. “Could have had you like this right away. Not waited.” 

“Thank you.” That matters, sometimes, and doesn’t others, as susceptible to their manipulations as anything. Which is irrelevant to the order there, entirely.

“You’re pretty on your knees, though. So I can’t say I wasn’t self-interested.” The hands and tentacles settle. The Elder readjusts slightly, shifts his stance a bit. Then drives himself into John.

It hurts, of course. Healing or not, he’ll feel it for hours at this rate, at the pace, at how little opportunity he has to be ready for any part of it. John sucks in air through his teeth, does his best to stay where he is. Stamina’s never an issue for the Elders, not in either sense of the word. They can finish immediately, if they want, and they can fuck him for hours. Combine the two, if they’re in the mood. Like the previous event, this one seems to be less on the immediately side. 

He makes it through without falling, at the least, though he thinks the tentacles get at least half the credit for that one. Not that John’s particularly concerned with credit, at that moment. At the end, though, the Elder doesn’t pull out. Nudges a tentacle at John’s entrance and through it, up beside his cock. John feels it stroking inside, flinches. 

“There, there.” John knows this feeling (knows a whole collection of feelings, by this point). Pressure, and buildup, and then the pulse of his cock. Different from orgasm; different from most of the collection of what it turns out his body can do, with the right encouragement. It aches, afterwards, stains through where his clothes are still whole, but from what he can tell they didn’t do anything to his fluids, this time. That’s something.

Now the Elder pulls out. Brushes his finger back where John is open now, sends the shock through it, this time.

“Back on your knees, now.” The tentacles let him go. John manages not to collapse, still. To turn around and get down the proper way. The tentacle, still invisible, is at his lips. 

“Clean up period, I think.” The tentacles don’t need it, are perfectly self-cleaning as far as John can tell. He doesn’t, obviously, volunteer this opinion. When he’s done - or when the Elder judges him to be done, at least, since it’s not as though there was any change, to his perception - the tentacle disappears, replaced by the cock again. 

This time, ten minutes seem satisfactory enough. “There, there.” The Elder pats John’s cheek, smiles at him again. “You do look good like this. Shame to ruin the view.” He’s contemplative for a minute. John stays where he is, keeps his head down. “Well, no one has a job for you it seems, not at the moment. Might change, of course. For now, though, this seems like a good place, I think.” The Elders' own clothes are never a bother to them either. There’s a moment and a shift, minutely, and then he’s perfectly in order again, as though he’d only just left a tailor. (John, of course, isn’t, his clothing still torn behind and stained in front, generally disturbed and creased in the wrong places. It’s not the worst look he’s worn, in a hallway. Another something, he supposes.)

The Elder pats his cheek again, sends a shock through it for a moment. “Don’t move, now.” John doesn’t, which means he doesn’t nod and doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. The Elder walks away from him, backing up and then turning, throwing a smile over his shoulder when he’s down the hall. John keeps his head down, stays. Wonders briefly if there’s a time limit on this that isn’t the others. If he’ll be missing dinner. Pushes the thought away.

Now that he’s alone, people do stop, sometimes. Don’t touch him, no lines crossed today, but he can feel their looks. Doesn’t have to look back to know the flavors of them from memory. To know what they’ll be saying, once they’re away from him again. 

No one touches him, no one comes for him. Fifteen minutes before dinner, a nudge in his head tells him he can get up. If he had other clothes, he could maybe make it to his room and get them. He doesn’t, not at the moment. Probably wouldn’t have risked it, anyway. He wonders if he should risk tying his jacket around his waist. Forms the query in his mind, just in case. Doesn’t push it. After a moment, feels a smile in his mind.  _ Oh, go ahead, then. A little something for you, pretty thing. _ For a moment, that makes him want not to, almost. Not that it would matter, at that point. Refusing a gift is taken as better or worse than disobedience, depending on either a pattern he does not know or on nothing. It’s never taken well. John starts pulling off his jacket.

By the time he gets to dinner, John remembers why he wanted this, fully. Remembers it more, once there. Not many of the Elders are there today. The one from earlier is; John is barely done eating when he feels himself beckoned over. 

The Elder only wants his mouth this time, kneeling between his legs under the table. (Two of the others want him that way too, after that). It doesn’t take so long this time, and the jacket stays, and he got to finish dinner. 

That’s more than something, really, for a day. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from [a Merriam Webster definition of usual](http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/usual). "commonly or ordinarily used".
> 
> [My tumblr for these kinds of things](http://findundergrounddragoutofwater.tumblr.com). I love fandom social things, and anyone who feels like they might want to message etc me for any reason is encouraged to totally do so.


End file.
